Christmas Pie Page 22

  With a charming, lopsided grin, James said, “Just persuade your daughter not to break our Christmas Eve engagement, if you please.”

  “I will, Mr. Drayton. You may depend on me.” Lillian couldn’t quite maintain her composure, but had to dig into her pocket for a handkerchief with which she wiped her eyes. “Thank you.”

  Before he left the MacNamara house, James exacted a promise from Polly not to go to work on Saturday.

  “Saturdays are only half-days anyway, Miss MacNamara and, although I tell you, frankly and truthfully, that you’re the best type-writer in our employ, I believe we can manage without you for half a Saturday.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Drayton,” she said formally.

  Her austere composure shattered when the loud “Aaooga” of James’s horn smote her ears. She couldn’t help laughing when he waved at her, his motoring scarf flying out behind him like a banner in the wind, his grin a mile wide.

  # # #

  Polly and Lillian retired to bed early that evening, as both ladies were exhausted from not having slept the night before. Polly sat cross-legged on her bed, her flannel nightgown drawn up under her knees. Her ancient coin nestled in her open palm and she gazed at it gravely. The old metal felt warm and, as usual, she sensed or saw—she couldn’t even tell anymore—a subtle light emanating from the coin.

  “Are you magic?” she asked softly. “Are you really magic?”

  Stillness settled around her, sweet and peaceful, calming nerves that had been strung taut all day. The ache in Polly’s heart for Stephen remained, but even it seemed to relax until she was left with only a vague, melancholy uncertainty. Not knowing her brother’s fate was hard; but she no longer felt the piercing despair which had kept her company earlier in the day.

  “I never realized how many things I wish for every day,” she told the coin. It seemed to pulse a tiny response, and Polly smiled. She didn’t know if her fancies were making her believe in magic or if magic was enhancing her fancies.

  She didn’t suppose it mattered.

  The coin seemed to brighten and Polly glanced toward her candle to see if it had flared. It hadn’t; at least not while she was looking.

  She heaved a tired sigh. “Well, if you are magic, please send Stephen back to us.” After thinking about her wish, she amended, “If it’s meant to be.”

  Another few minutes’ thought produced, “I mean, does anybody really know what’s meant to be? Perhaps if, God forbid, Stephen is never found, one of Mr. Drayton’s genius friends will be inspired to invent some great navigational device to assure ships are never lost at sea.”

  The thought brought tears to Polly’s eyes and she wiped them away, still feeling philosophical. “I mean, who really knows what’s best for the world? We think we know what’s best for ourselves, but I’m not sure we even know that, truly. Look at Mother.”

  Her mother was right. If Polly had known she was practicing climbing stairs, she’d have stopped her. She liked having her mother an invalid because she couldn’t get away when she was confined to her wheelchair. What a dismal statement that was about her.

  The coin caught her attention by heating her palm until she noticed. She looked down in surprise, wondering if it had just become warmer or if her imagination was carrying her away.

  Then she grinned. “Are you trying to tell me there’s no value in self-pity, coin?”

  As if on cue, she felt an infinitesimal pulse against her palm. Shaking her head, torn between enchantment and concern, she murmured. “Maybe I’m just going crazy.”

  Then she decided to try an experiment. Squinching her eyes up to help her think, she tried to come up with a suitable test. After all, how did one examine an object to determine if it contained magic? It was a topic not discussed in textbooks, in Polly’s experience.

  Now let me see . . . She didn’t want to ask for anything big. Eyeing the coin thoughtfully, she mused, “It seems to me that when I wish for things they don’t come to me exactly as I would expect them to. Maybe you’re a devious little coin.”

  After several more minutes of deep contemplation, she said, “I have it!” Clearing her throat, she sat up straighter on her bed, and stared hard into her palm.

  “If you’re really a magic coin, let me see Dewey, Mr. Drayton’s dog, tomorrow. Now, this sighting doesn’t have to be anything dramatic; just let me see him.”

  She heaved a satisfied sigh. There. That’s not difficult, and I can’t see how it can occasion harm to anybody. And it will be a splendid test.

  Pleased with herself, Polly snuggled under her quilts. She went to sleep with her coin clutched in her hand and tucked up under her head. Her dreams were full of happy wishes for her future. With James.

  # # #

  The very first thing James did when he left the MacNamara ladies was visit the Grant Street Police Station and file a formal complaint, as Polly MacNamara’s attorney, against Lawrence Bullock. He was a little disgruntled to discover Bullock had managed to bail himself out before he got there. He’d love to have given his former associate a stern lecture.

  Sighing philosophically, he decided it couldn’t be helped. And he still had lots to do today.

  Raymond was in the process of unpacking his law books and setting them on shelves in his new office when James returned to the law firm.

  “Sorry, James. So far my sources have come up completely empty.”

  “All of them?” James scowled at Raymond’s back. This was bad—and strange—news indeed.

  “All of them.” With a large tome clutched in his hand, Raymond turned around. “I know this sounds suspicious—maybe even fantastic—but I swear, it’s as though somebody’s clamped a lid on the China Seas investigation.”

  James’s scowl faded into bemusement. “But that’s crazy, Raymond.”

  With a shrug, Raymond stuffed the volume onto his bookshelf. “I don’t know what to tell you, James. Everywhere I looked, everybody I talked to, was shut up tight as an oyster. Some of them even started to say something and then clammed up, as though they recalled they’d been told not to speak about it. I couldn’t find out a single, solitary thing. Not one.” He stooped to pick up another two books and frowned when he straightened up again. “It was very frustrating.”

  “Yes, I can see that it would be.” James squatted down and began to help Raymond with his books. “I don’t understand it.”

  “Neither do I.”

  # # #

  In the comfort of the parlor in his mansion on Nob Hill, J. P. Drayton spoke into his telephone. An air of satisfaction hovered over him and imbued his cheeks with a ruddy glow. If one didn’t know him for the Scrooge he was, a body might mistake him for Father Christmas himself. He chuckled, a sound so foreign in his household that his Chinese butler, setting out the brandy decanter, peered at him as if to ascertain whether or not he needed medical attention.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” J. P. chortled into the receiver. “No. For heaven’s sake, don’t tell anything to a single soul. This is going to be the surprise of that damned insolent young puppy’s life.”

  A roar of laughter greeted the response he heard on the other end of the line. His butler, with a frightened glance at J. P., finished his work quickly and hurried out of the room. At the door, he cast one last look at his employer, shook his head in amazement, and scuttled out, making sure the door was securely closed.

  His butler’s behavior and expression of worry didn’t escape J. P.’s attention, but he didn’t care. For the first time in his life, he was having fun. And, as in his business affairs, he didn’t plan to let anyone or anything interfere with it.

  # # #

  It took James a long time to fall asleep that night. Thoughts of Polly MacNamara bounced up against the puzzling facts of Raymond’s thwarted attempt to gather information about China Seas until James’s brain was in a fuddle. He finally decided to set the China Seas mystery aside and concentrate on Polly, a much more pleasant occupation.

  “She’s wonder
ful,” he murmured to Dewey who, much to his initial annoyance, insisted on sharing his gigantic bed.

  He’d almost become used to his dog’s nightly presence by this time, although he still had to nudge him every so often when the hound took to snoring. James figured Cynthia Ingram would have a fit if she ever saw a dog in his bed, but by this time he had a pretty shrewd notion Cynthia Ingram would not be visiting his bedroom again.

  Ideas of an entirely different—and infinitely more permanent—nature had begun to spin in James’s head. They were ideas he’d never expected to entertain, and he found it necessary to tiptoe up to them carefully and examine them only obliquely. Otherwise, they scared the tar out of him.

  “She likes children, too. And dogs.” He poked Dewey with his big toe, and the dog sighed in his sleep. With a chuckle, James continued, “She even bestowed you with a dignified pedigree, God save us all.”

  His laughter died. “But I wish to heaven I could find out something about her brother’s ship. And there’s still the matter of her father’s death. I’ll be damned if I won’t see them compensated for that disaster.”

  A scowl carved two deep ruts into his forehead. “I’ll see justice done there, if I have to dog my father’s steps from now to eternity.”

  At the word “dog,” Dewey sighed in his sleep, lifted a paw and slapped James on the leg, startling him. His dour mood broken, he shook his head in amusement and lifted his knee to dislodge his affectionate hound’s paw.

  “Good grief. If I do end up proposing to her, I’d better find you another place to sleep. She’s no Cynthia Ingram, but even my sweet-natured Polly might object to sharing her bed with you, Admiral.”

  Dewey rolled over onto his back. The exercise lifted the flaps of his muzzle and made him appear to grin. James couldn’t help laughing. Then he gave up thinking, turned off his fancy Edison electrical bedside lamp, pulled up his covers, and closed his eyes. Just before sleep claimed him, he decided to shock his entire household tomorrow and have his housekeeper decorate the mansion for Christmas.

  He went to sleep with a smile on his lips. All night long he dreamed of Polly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning found Polly and her mother feeling cheerier than they had the day before. Polly scanned the early edition of the Chronicle while she and Lillian ate their breakfast. This Saturday morning was much more relaxed than usual, since Polly didn’t have to hurry off to work.

  “Do you see anything about Stephen’s ship, dear?”

  “No. Not a word, I’m afraid.” Polly heaved a little sigh.

  “Well, I expect they haven’t found out anything more yet. I wonder if they ever will.”

  Polly’s hand paid a brief visit to her charms. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  “I wonder if Mr. Drayton will be able to discover anything,” Lillian murmured into her teacup.

  Polly found herself smiling in spite of the painful topic of their conversation. “I don’t know.”

  A dreamy mood overtook her, and she commenced staring out the dining room window, the newspaper forgotten in front of her. Thoughts of James Drayton floated gently through her head. Just think. In only another couple of weeks, she’d be dancing the night away in his arms. The notion made gooseflesh rise in the most embarrassing places.

  A loud knock at the front door jolted her out of her pleasant daydream.

  “Good heavens!” Lillian squinted at the clock on the sideboard. “Who on earth can that be?”

  “I’ll see, Mother. Don’t trouble yourself about it.” Polly shoved her chair away from the table.

  Even though she knew she was merely indulging in idle fancies, her heart lifted at the idea that it might be James, come to pay a morning call. She told herself not to be ridiculous.

  Still, her hope lasted until she opened the door to discover a uniformed messenger holding an official-looking envelope in his hand. Her spirits, which seconds before had been singing merrily, suddenly plummeted like a popped balloon.

  “Special delivery.” The man held the envelope out to her.

  Oh, my God, her heart cried, Stephen’s dead.

  Then her sensible nature asserted itself and told her to calm down; the navy always sent a chaplain to deliver news of that depressing nature. Nevertheless, her hand trembled when she took the envelope.

  “Thank you.”

  The courier saluted smartly and left her holding the door, staring blankly after him.

  “What is it, Polly?”

  Her mother’s voice jarred her and, with a shake to get her nerves settled, Polly called, “It was a special messenger with an envelope, Mother.” Polly scanned the envelope, searching for a return address. She saw nothing. “I don’t know who it’s from, but it’s addressed to you.”

  “Special delivery?”

  “Yes.” Polly handed her mother the envelope and noticed that Lillian, too, seemed worried about what the envelope might contain.

  “It’s probably nothing, Mother.”

  Lillian peered up at her. “‘Nothing’ via special delivery?”

  Polly sat with a sigh. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Well, I’d better get it over with.”

  Lillian opened the envelope and pulled out several pieces of paper. She read one while Polly watched, on pins and needles with anticipation.

  Then Lillian lifted her gaze and the utter incredulity on her face made Polly exclaim, “Good heavens, what is it?”

  “I—I’m not altogether sure.”

  To Polly’s intense frustration, Lillian dipped her head and reread the paper. When she lifted her gaze again, Polly was on the verge of an unladylike shriek.

  “It’s from Mr. J. P. Drayton, Polly.”

  Polly stared at her mother in astonishment. “J. P. Drayton? The shipping magnate?”

  “Yes.” Lillian looked from the paper to her daughter and back again. “He says his son, James, just informed him of Franklin’s death as a result of the accident on the Golden Liberty. He says he’s terribly sorry my health precluded our taking advantage of insurance settlements offered after the accident.”

  “His son James!” All at once Polly’s world tilted. Her thoughts whirled. Then she thought: Of course. Why hadn’t she made the connection before? A pain began in her heart and spread until her chest felt as though it were being squeezed by fiery metal tongs.

  Lillian held up another piece of paper, this one much smaller than the last. Her hand shook and Polly heard the paper rattle. “He enclosed a bank draft.”

  Polly took the draft from her mother’s hand and read it. When she saw the amount scripted on the paper, her mouth dropped open and she stared, unable to believe the amount inscribed thereon in stark black-and-white.

  “My God,” she whispered. “My God.”

  Lillian cleared her throat. “He says—” She had to stop and swallow. When she spoke again, her words were thick. “He says he’s included interest and also added a stipend by way of apology.” Lillian nodded and blew her nose. “He says he never knew of our situation before, or he would have done something earlier.”

  For several moments, Polly just watched her mother, her brain spinning.

  James Drayton. J. P. Drayton. James—her James—son of the powerful, rumored-to-be-brutally-sharp-and-hard-hearted shipping millionaire.

  The pain in her chest pulsed and she frowned. What on earth was she thinking of? Her James? Not very likely.